The Emmanuel Project

by Ronald Brueckmann

  “Let’s see.” The fisherman counted off on his fingers. “The Feast of Passover will begin in twenty-eight days.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Present-Day Israel

  The physicists refused to give up on what they considered to be the greatest discovery in human history. Despite the turmoil, most considered it a blessing to finally be free of the government’s interference. Now that they were free to pursue science in its purest form, they believed it was their duty to forge ahead. They had opened the door and it was humankind’s destiny to step through that portal, to explore the sweep of time much like their predecessors had explored the uncharted oceans and the unmapped continents and the unknown reaches of outer space. They were proudly following in the footsteps of giants like Vespucci and Magellan and Cook, Peary and Byrd and Armstrong. Now that they knew it could be done, they would do it. There was no turning back.

  The Team still believed that if the Device worked when they sent matter into the future, then it must be working when they sent matter into the past. Maybe not the known past. Certainly not the known past. Many theorized that the very act of introducing something from outside the existent time continuum would inherently and irrevocably change things. Yet proponents of the chronology protection theory argued that the cosmos itself would prevent history from being altered. But they all agreed that the specimens they sent into the past went somewhere. And they intended to find out where that somewhere was.

  The Project had been dealt a serious blow. But it was not fatal. As agents had searched the compound, confiscating everything they considered to be property of the Israeli government, dedicated scientists had risked their freedom and their future copying vital software to remote servers, hiding disks and tapes and flash drives in lunch bags and stockings and brassieres. And though military technicians had reduced the operating hardware to a pile of wreckage, they had somehow managed to overlook the most essential element of the research, bypassing a suite in the basement of the physics lab, where a submicroscopic particle, suspended in the magnetic field of a high-energy plasma stream, survived unmolested behind a thick lead door labeled, DANGER – RADIOACTIVE MATERIAL. It appeared no government operative was quite dedicated enough to breach that section of the facility.

  Carrying on with private endowments and research grants, the Team managed to salvage much of their data and re-code every bit of software. Over the course of the next two years, engineers rebuilt the Device, greatly improving many aspects of the original prototype. Within three years, the Project was back on track. Human test subjects were routinely sent into the near future with no negative results. Duration was methodically increased, with one Jump lasting a full six months. Just like every other subject, the volunteer, an electronics engineer, had vanished into thin air accompanied by the usual high-frequency ripping sound. Six months later she simply reappeared in the exact same position, no worse for wear. To her, the Jump had lasted only a split second. Her only complaint was some mild indigestion that was later attributed to the chipotle hummus served in the university cafeteria on Jump day.

  This was not what many of the scientists had expected. The result ran contrary to the theory of parallel universes. The subject had unquestionably bypassed a period of time without experiencing the natural associated aging. Even the calendar on her watch showed no passage of time. Yet the subject did not arrive at the intended time coordinates prior to the baseline continuum of the laboratory. She had jumped ahead in time, but arrived there at exactly the same instant as everybody else. It seemed to prove that the future did not exist along a parallel time continuum as many believed, but along a linear time continuum. Where had she gone for those six months? Was she in some cosmic waiting room? Was some natural process at work, some form of chronology protection? Was it proof of a single universe? Was it a glitch in the Device? A bug in the software? The physicists didn’t have a definitive answer. So they rolled up their proverbial sleeves and got back to work.

  Time passed, politics changed, and a new administration took power. The Israeli government kept a close eye on the Project, but kept their distance, allowing the research to proceed without interference. They knew there would be ample opportunity to take control when that course of action proved necessary. For the time being, their main concern was keeping the research secret. If reports of the discovery leaked out, the battle for this new technology would make the nuclear arms race look like child’s play. And the new command was sharp enough to realize that if this particular genie got out of the bottle, mankind was in for a world of hurt, possibly even extinction. For whoever controlled the past, controlled the present. And the prospect of opposing powers stirring up the past to suit their own advantage was a scenario too horrifying to contemplate.

  The research continued with the Team still searching for a way to prove the success of forays into the past. When someone was sent into the future, for those in the current temporal continuum, the test subject appeared to exist in some sort of suspended state until time caught up with them. That logic did not translate well with the past. Once again there were many divergent theories and many discussions, but only one way to find out for sure. Unable to verify a Jump into the past from the present, the scientists agreed that the verification needed to come from the past, from the test subject, and that meant sending a human. No radium sample or lesser organism would do. Human intelligence was required on the other end of the Jump to send some kind of signal back across the gulf of time. For the research to progress, it was absolutely imperative that a human be sent into the past.

  Finding test subjects to participate in what might very well be a suicide mission proved surprisingly unproblematic. In the years following the break with the government, the Team had surreptitiously investigated a select number of the disbanded Mossad commando unit, following their lives after they were discharged from the armed forces, choosing only those who had completely divested themselves of all government and military affiliation. While most of the ex-soldiers thought their special-ops training had been just another military lark, an adventurous few were intrigued enough to respond to vague inquiries from Team psychologists. The Team was extremely cautious, carefully vetting and testing each individual. Most proved to be little more than thrill seekers, adrenalin junkies. Out of the entire group, only eight were invited to join the Team and given full details of the Project. Aware of the risks involved, all eight willingly offered their services as time-travel subjects. Of these highly educated, physically fit, and psychologically capable young Israelis, three were selected to be the vanguard of humanity’s exploration into the past.

  The scientists decided that the best way to avoid many of the commonly held paradox theories was to bypass the near past and send the subjects into the deep past. Back to a time when there was less chance of meeting one’s own self, or one’s ancestor, or anything else that might conceivably trigger a consequence of a near-time paradox. Back to a time when—if the subjects tread lightly—they could provide verification without generating too much of a disturbance in the time continuum. They wanted nothing to do with rearranging the past. They just wanted proof that their invention worked. It was then that they decided to consult with an expert on antiquities. One of the ex-commandos, himself a specialist in ancient Middle Eastern cultures and languages, knew of just such an expert as the Team was seeking. He advised them to contact the preeminent authority on the ancient Holy Land, the head of the Department of Archeology at Tel Aviv University, his father, the esteemed Dr. Robert Jankowski.

  CHAPTER 39

  Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)

  Viktor urged the donkey up another steep incline before the long gradual descent into the Jordan River Valley. Balky and limping, the tattered animal was already worn out and the journey had barely begun. Following the western shore of the Sea of Galilee down from Capernaum through the towns of Magdala and Hamtha, he left the settlements behind and entered the relatively unpeopled desert wilderness that bordered the shallow riv
er. Just past the ruins of ancient Philoteria, with Mount Tabor looming on the western horizon, the tired donkey gave out, throwing Viktor hard upon the rocky path. By the time he pushed himself off the ground, the animal was already dead, three month’s salary squandered. Viktor cursed his own stupidity. In his haste, he had allowed himself to be duped by the stable owner like some naïve city boy. And now he was afoot once again. With darkness looming, he dragged the carcass into a nearby ravine and set up camp beside a roaring fire on the hillside, hoping to keep the night scavengers at bay.

  The next day, looping two supply packs over his shoulders and tying another bundle around his waist, he set out. By midmorning, a blazing sun filled the sky. The trees bordering the river afforded him some protection. But where the terrain forced the path to diverge from the watercourse, conditions changed drastically. Up on the high ground, he could feel the full wrath of the desert. Across the thin ribbon of water, beyond the east bank, the scorched hills of modern-day Jordan marched off into the distant haze, shimmering menacingly in the superheated air. It seemed like they went on forever. He knew, of course, that they didn’t. But on foot, they might as well have. Wandering off in that direction meant certain death.

  The heat was merciless. Frequently resting in the shade, or dropping his packs, shedding his cloak, and plunging into the tepid river, Viktor’s progress was excruciatingly slow. And it wasn’t long before he had discarded all but the most essential supplies. He rebuked himself for not following his instincts and traveling light. This wasn’t a holiday outing to the beach in Tel Aviv. By his estimation, Jericho still lay approximately 100 kilometers due south. The actual hike would be significantly longer following the narrow rift valley as it snaked its way through the inhospitable wilderness. Since leaving Caesarea, his journey had already covered over 100 kilometers, and he had to face the humbling realization that he no longer was the invincible young soldier of that other time. The afternoon sun felt like a dead weight on his shoulders. And the temperature was only going to rise further as the river descended toward the salty waters of the Dead Sea, falling in elevation to the lowest point on the earth’s surface. Things were going to get much rougher. He had to pick up the pace while he was able. With luck, he could be in Jericho by the end of the week.

  That night he huddled beneath a thornbush beside the riverbank, too exhausted to light a fire. But sleep was hard to come by. Though seemingly uninhabited in the heat of day, the valley came alive with nocturnal creatures under the ashen light of the moon. Hunting and howling, mating and dying, the constant commotion—sometimes alarmingly close at hand—set his nerves on edge. He prayed that the sharp thorns would be enough deterrent to keep predators away. Just before dawn, a disturbance on the road dispelled any further likelihood of rest, as a large detachment of Roman soldiers marched past, a clattering cacophony of armor and hooves. Slipping out of the brush, Viktor hunkered down behind a boulder and waited for the unit to disappear around a bend in the river. If he wanted to make it to Jericho, he needed to steer clear of the Roman military. Alone on the road, he was vulnerable. If he did not want to become sport for some bored legionnaire’s amusement, he would have to be more vigilant.

  Keeping to himself, Viktor slowly worked his way downriver, stopping in small villages only when absolutely necessary. Most of the settlements were buzzing with anti-Roman sentiment, Zealots openly speaking of insurrection. He found their patriotic rhetoric inspiring. He longed to join them, to help his people expel the invaders from his homeland. He thought about Tamir, out there somewhere in the Jezreel Valley, fighting for Israel against impossible odds. If only he had brought just one Uzi machine pistol, or his trusty Tavor assault rifle. Then maybe he could make a real difference. If only he had a squad of his IDF comrades with him. One single Shayete commando unit would probably be enough to send the whole 10th Legion packing. They would show the Roman louts what modern Israeli warriors could do. If only things were different. If only… He could dream, but dreams didn’t get the job done, and he had a job to do. Somewhere out there, if the Christian scriptures were accurate, a young rabbi from Nazareth was rushing toward his destiny. Time was running out. He had to keep moving.

  CHAPTER 40

  Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)

  Viktor sat on the edge of the riverbank in the shade of a huge willow tree, his feet dangling in the sluggish water, his mind drifting. Long days of intense heat and sleepless nights were taking their toll. His supplies exhausted, he had been forced to rely on his survival training. Living off the land, they called it. It sounded so easy. Maybe in a tropical paradise, it was easy. Maybe in a land flowing with milk and honey, it was easy. Land of milk and honey. That made him laugh. God had surely pulled Moses’ leg with that one. This was not a land for the faint-hearted. It was, and always would be, a place where only the strong survived.

  Fresh water was close at hand in the river. There were few pollutants and he could deal with the sediment by filtering it through his cloak. Food was a much bigger concern. Some date palms and figs grew wild in the narrow valley, but little else. Protein was hard to come by. Game was scarce. The fish and birds he stalked were too quick and too wary. So Viktor resorted to eating mostly snakes and lizards. In the chilly morning, they were slow moving and easy to catch. The problem was, he needed fire to cook. And fire brought attention to him, which he was desperate to avoid. But it was a risk he had to take. Raw gecko was a taste he had yet to acquire.

  Most of the travelers he encountered were heading south toward Jerusalem for the holiday. Not being a major trade route, merchant traffic was practically nil. And few locals walked the road. It seemed that the general populace was staying close to home, seeking to avoid the increasing military activity. Roman cavalry patrols were a common occurrence and sometimes columns of infantry clogged the narrow trail. Viktor spent many frustrating hours lying low as the soldiers marched past. A detachment of legionnaires manned every crossroads, inspecting travelers for contraband, sometimes harassing innocent pilgrims just for the mean-spirited joy of it. He gave them a wide berth, sometimes backtracking and striking out into the wilderness to bypass the checkpoints. Like running on a treadmill, he was getting nowhere fast.

  At the town of Scythopolis, where the Jordan intersected the eastern end of the Jezreel Valley, Viktor finally gave in and sought out a comfortable place to rest. Though dirty and disheveled, he used flawless Greek and a silver coin to procure a meal and a bed in a shabby inn outside the fortified walls of the brazenly pagan city. Collapsing gratefully onto a mat of clean straw, he awoke to find that he had slept deep into the afternoon of the following day. Time was running out. He had to cover more ground, and quickly. Using the last of his silver, he haggled with a Greek merchant over a grizzled swaybacked pony and took off down the road to Jericho.

  With his wit and his command of language, Viktor managed to talk his way through the many checkpoints that commanded the road. The legionnaires assigned to such inconsequential duty were mostly displaced peasants from conquered lands, and a generous application of flattery or a coarse bluff of pompous arrogance usually did the trick. Without an officer in attendance, the average infantryman was more inclined to loaf than to fight. Many were unwilling conscripts and some were just fulfilling the mandatory military service required to achieve Roman citizenship. It amazed him how subjugated people responded so willingly to any manifestation of authority, even coming from a rumpled figure in Hebrew garb riding a flea-bitten swayback pony.

  With so much military activity on the road, Viktor knew it was only a matter of time before his luck ran out. It was a dangerous game he was playing. And the sleepless nights and the diet of charred salamander were wearing him down. In order to push hard during the day, he required a safe haven at night. So every afternoon as the blazing sun began to slip behind the western hills, he sought shelter in one of the small villages that snuggled along the green trace of river. His coin purse empty, like a beggar he had to rely on the kindness of stranger
s for his sustenance. It was another bitter pill for a proud warrior to swallow. Fortunately for him, the Hebrew custom of hospitality flourished among the impoverished communities. It seemed the poorer the village, the greater their compassion. The townsfolk generally treated him well, often sharing their evening meal and providing him with a safe place to sleep. He wasn’t the first of his kind to pass through their villages, a penniless well-educated young man on his way to the Holy City. Obviously another pious talmidim heading to the yeshiva to study at the feet of some learned rabbi. They gave him what they could and sent him on his way with a blessing. Viktor was grateful for their generosity. And though he felt a bit guilty, he said nothing to correct their misconception.

  CHAPTER 41

  Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)

  At the crossroad to Alexandrium, Viktor spent a long thirsty afternoon hidden in a shallow wadi as a succession of Roman patrols raced out of the fortress city. The heat was dreadful. Yet he had no choice except to hunker down and bide his time. By sundown things had finally quieted down, and with no soldiers in sight he resumed his journey. To make up lost time, he pushed on deep into the night, leading his horse along the darkened road. The valley was peaceful and the cool night breeze was a refreshing change from the blazing daylight hours. And before long, the rising moon had brightened the road enough to ride. Swinging himself onto the pony’s back, he urged the animal forward, its hooves clacking softly in the stillness. Letting his mount choose its own pace, he was soon dozing with the pony’s hypnotic gait, dreaming of air-conditioning and soft mattresses. Nearly asleep as the horse ambled around a sharp bend in the road where the river had cut a dogleg into the bank, a cluster of campfires suddenly materialized on the dark hillside ahead. Jolted awake, Viktor quickly turned the animal around and retraced his route. As soon as he was beyond sight of the checkpoint, he stopped, and quieting the horse, listened intently to the surrounding darkness. Other than some night creatures, nothing spoiled the stillness. Relieved that he had managed to escape detection, he started back toward a secluded canyon he had spotted earlier, a sheltered place where he could spend the remainder of the night unseen. Kicking his mount into a trot, the horse instead skidded to stop. With nostrils flaring and ears flicking, the animal refused to budge. Peering up the road, straining to see what was spooking the horse, Viktor was unaware of the hulking forms that had stepped from the shadows behind him, moonlight glinting off helmet and breastplate and sword.